A Moderate Success
by Gypsy Love
Summary: A story about Joey, Craig, and Angela set a bit in the future. Joey's 41, Craig 24, Ang 15. Joey point of view.
1. Chapter 1

"What are you doing?" Angie said, leaning one hand on her hip.

"Cleaning," I said sheepishly, dusting some glass knick knack I couldn't recall ever seeing before.

"Why? It's just Craig. He knows you're a slob," I couldn't get used to the sulky teen age voice on my sweet daughter, but she was 15 now. Still, if I squinted I could still see the five year old she would always be to me.

My son Craig, on the other hand, was 24 now. He found a moderate success with his music, the bands changing over the years, sometimes he went it solo. But for me he'd always be 15, a sulky teenager stealing my car. I shook my head, glanced at my 41 year old face in the mirror. I wasn't quite sure how old I should be, but I didn't think it was 41. That was too old. Too old by far.

"When's he coming?" Angie said, and despite the bored coolness in her voice I knew she wanted to see him. They'd had a special sort of relationship, and I knew they saw bits of their mother in each other. Now that they were getting older I could see her a bit more clearly in them, too. It made me sad. So much in getting older made me sad.

"Tonight. He should be here for supper," That was one thing that had changed for the better, suppers. I used to be the frozen pizza king, sandwiches, grill cheese, macaroni and cheese. I could boil water for pasta and dump in cheese sauce. Now I was really cooking, braising meats and roasting stews and making curries and sauces and tartars. I'd found something rewarding in cooking.

"What are you making him, Beef Wellington?" Angie said, and everything she said dripped with sarcasm. Mostly I ignored it. Sometimes it amused me. This time it made me mad.

"Look, Missy, if you don't have anything positive to say-" I stopped mid sentence. The thing was, she was right. I was planning an overly extravagant menu just to keep my mind off of how much I've missed him and how infrequently he comes around. I knew we'd be staring at each other with little to say, or saying a lot with nothing in it. I groaned inwardly, thinking about how much I hated talking about the weather.

Sauces and grains were merrily bubbling away on the stove top, Angie was up in her room lost in whatever she got lost in. The computer, her ipod, the T.V. whatever it was. I glanced outside at the fading light, the growing gloom. I spaced for a moment, remembering my dead wife. The way she would tilt her head back and laugh, and the feeling of pride if I was the one who caused that laugh. It still hurt to think of her, all these years later. I couldn't quickly come up with the number of years. Then the bad luck number popped into my head. 13. It had been 13 years.

"Hi," I looked over at the creak of the door and my step son laden with suitcases and his guitar.

"Hi," I said warmly, feeling the smile crinkle my eyes. I went over to him and hugged him before he got his coat off. I could smell the cold clinging to his clothes, trapped in the fiber of the coat.

He shrugged out of his coat once I finally let him go, pulled off his hat and hung both neatly in the closet. This was new. He used to drop things where he took them off, and after school you could find him by following the trail of his discarded items. I noticed the slight receding of his hair, not anything drastic, just the normal hairline of a 24 year old as opposed to, say, a 15 year old. There was that older look to his face, a maturity I couldn't wrap my head around. Where was the wounded teenager I used to know?

"How are you, Joey?" he said, and his voice was the same, at least.

"Good," That was the only way I ever answered that question, and I didn't know if it was true. There were layers to how I was, and I was sure that one of them was okay. Why burden my loved ones if I didn't have to?


	2. Chapter 2

Angie always looked like she was sulking. Sometimes I missed my cheerful little girl, baby tooth smile, chubby cheeks. I swallowed a dry ball of meat and wondered what was wrong with me. Why did I want everything to be frozen in the past?

As annoyed as I was with Angie and her "coolness" Craig seemed amused, and he kept breaking into his wide grin, asking her questions, teasing her until she smiled.

I poured myself some more wine and then it occurred to me Craig could drink, too. Not that he hadn't been drinking when he lived here in high school, but that was different. It was sanctioned now. I raised my eyebrows in surprise at the thought. Time, I thought, looking at the congealing sauces and cooling bowls of vegetables, time was moving on.

"Craig, want some wine?" I said, and he looked slightly surprised by the offer.

"Sure," he said, and I poured him a glass. Still, I thought of the meds he was on and how drinking might not be such a good idea with them, you know, heavy duty psych meds like that. But I figured one glass wouldn't hurt.

He sipped it and I looked at his face, an adult's face now fully. Any trace of the child and teenager I had known was gone. I licked my lips and thought of the wrinkles I saw in the mirror every morning, little lines and deeper lines, deep grooves. I could see my dead wife in the shape of his eyes, the way he smiled and laughed. Between the two of my children they had all of her features covered. Angie's hair was the exact shade of Julia's, her eyes the exact shade of her eyes.

"I haven't seen you on MTV or anything," Angie said, and there was a kernel of seriousness in the teasing. I saw the flash of Craig's hurt look, and in that flash he looked younger somehow. I closed my eyes and remembered finding him at Julia's grave that night, and he was shaking, trying so hard to hold it together. That was the night he became my son, not just my step-son.

"It takes time," he told her, composed again, sipping his wine. My wine was top notch. The best vineyards, the best years. I was done with Boone Farm and Zinfindel.

"How much time? Six years?" Angie said, and her features were sharp, her look pointed. She attacked everyone, going for the weakest spot like a predator.

"Maybe. Maybe longer,"

Craig was old enough to know success wasn't so black and white anymore, not so set in stone. Maybe it would take longer, maybe it would take forever. I glanced at his guitar leaning in the corner, saw the nicks in the shiny wood finish. He was doing something he loved, sometimes that was success enough.

"Seeing anyone?" I said to him, and I could tell by his playful smile that he wasn't seeing anyone serious. He turned the question back on me.

"What about you, Joey?" he said, and I thought back to the last year he lived here, his senior year in high school. Come to think of it, he'd seemed kind of adult-like even then. It had seemed like we were roommates sometimes then. I'd date girls and he would, and we'd compare notes like two bachelors in the evenings.

"No. Not really," And the truth was, except for Caitlin, I'd only dated pale copies of Julia and then got rid of them when they couldn't measure up, and they never could. Sometimes I felt like I had to face it, my mate was my dead wife. I could still feel her so much, I could close my eyes and there she was.

"How about you, Ang?" he said, spearing a carrot and chewing it.

"Well…" she said, her tone shy all of a sudden. She was seeing someone, or liked someone or something. My Angie. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought to ask this question myself.


End file.
